10/17/14
Never sleep with your assassins, let alone fall in love with them. But how could I help it? She was my first true success, a perfect amalgamation of broken ballerina and psychic scarred succubus capable of seducing even myself, the master of masochistic co-dependency.
She broke me, in the best way possible. I'd never again want for a woman who would not woo me, forever forsaking those who wouldn't lie with me and merely lie to me. True Love is a dead concept of no more consequence than the passage of time, no more concrete than a young girl's dreams.
She's passed out in my bed as I sip a well whiskey on the rocks at Trophy Bar. A year ago all charges were dropped against me in the case of rape and all other sexual crimes a male could be accused of. The Witch neutered me, shattered my self just as I self-repaired the social anxiety slo-motion explosion that sat in my chest.
Sitting as a Zen Monk behind bars, a lamb in the machine of reverse sexual discrimination, about to launch Kings County Comics, laying on cold, bug infested, drunk & disorderly concrete cells in Kings County Lock-Up. I stood before the judge, my back to my mother and sister, accused of sexual abuse, myself a victim, both as a child and again as an adult, ravaged by a self-proclaimed sorceress, who only grew to power by my words & deed.
She was a fractured soul, broken in ways I hadn't seen, even despite my firsthand experience with the saddest psychotics that roamed the cityscape. In a way we acted out roles much larger than ourselves, or so retrospective analyzation revealed. For a brief moment she held the fiery Phoenix in her heart before it scorched the sexual deviant veneer from my sad sack soul.
I was whole in the way that a tombstone is complete & content, when her laser eyes set their sights upon me. Pink sweater and satin skin, I'd never know where my desire ended and her indifference would begin. She was perfect. Transmutable tease with legs for days and breasts of Greek Goddess sculptures, with hips that spoke of infinite potential, topped off with an ass that won't quit. Ever.
And neither will I. She is deadly in a way that is so utterly devastatingly complete that I spend most of my time wanting to weep. Every single sensitive spot she annihilates with the cold indifference of a Ronin, a soul that knows it is dead already.
And yet. I rise from those ashes time & again, renewed with vigor & spirit, eager to be obliterated over & over again. Maybe that's the whiskey talking. Do I want the pain that bad? If I got what I "wanted" would that satisfy the thirst for satisfaction I seek in socialization with simian siblings? After all, I am only able to love the words, this salvation that is necessarily squeezed from an over-saturated celebrity self-importance.
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